What is an artist?

More than what talent could ever provide.

The art that an artist creates is more than the polish of skill. It reaches far beyond the depths of knowledge.

For an artist breaths the art. It is every ember of beauty blended under every drop of blood. Every joy endured throughout the torture of growth. A collection of failures far grander than the sea of doubt that the artist sails through in discovery and shipwreck. Never broken to the weight of impossibility. Growing with every season, the art is all that the artist knows.

The art does not know its creator. It only knows what was meant for it to be. In deformity or perfection. This is its only purpose. A mirror reflection of an unseen god. A demon or an angel. It matters not to the art. It only knows the simple truth of what it is.

For this is the torment of the artist. A struggle never ending and ever unbending. At times flowing like water between blades of steel. Forming to the shapes of everything the artist feels. And at times, falling through dispersing winds. Absorbing into the chaos of mountain striations. Freezing its stride by the absence of light. And scorching to mist in the fires of hell. All for their purpose.

It is all the artist is. It’s all the artist needs. Their bottomless well of creativity is only to the one truth of all they know. Everything else matters not. There is only the art.

This is what an artist could be.